


Snippets (for non-existent scrapbooks)

by platehate



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Drabbles, F/M, Inappropriate Humor, Mild Smut, Multi, Short ficlets, Slice of Life, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, random headcanon, rating from K to M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2575409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platehate/pseuds/platehate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They play everything by ear.</p><p>(or rather, they don't, but that's how they make it seem)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Izaya, Namie (!)

**Author's Note:**

> How should I put this? -- I wrote the first of these without using names at all; just a generic he/she story that could be superimposed onto any het relationship. I was going to keep them ambiguously written, like that, as far as possible, but you know what I can't be bothered anymore.
> 
> Initially izanamie, now expanded to other characters and pairings. Relationships may or my not be platonic.

**xxx**

 

“How strange you are,” he remarks, idly watching her as she goes into a happy little trance over incestuous thoughts of her beloved younger brother; “Other people express their love with flowers, you know? Or something else equally commonplace that gives off the appearance of sincerity – chocolate. Happy tears. And then there’s you, sending him telepathic messages, stalking him, and coercing dying girls into getting plastic surgery in order to fulfil an obsessive childhood fantasy of his. There’s no point.”

He twirls a pen with his fingers, she continues her filing.

“I like getting flowers,” he continues, meditatively, provocatively, “the look on people’s faces when they hand them to me – ha! It’s really something. Wouldn’t you agree? Ah,  but then again you’re the sort of woman who doesn’t bother to receive flowers face to face, or look at people when they’re talking to you, hmm? …Unless you feel you have something to lose.”

And success! He leans forward in anticipation, completely fixated on the disgusted set of her mouth, her pale pink lips as they reluctantly separate.

“Flowers?” the scorn in her voice is so palpable, it drips from her words like poison; he laps it up like honeyed mead.

“The rose has but a summer reign,” she drones, voice deliberately schooled into something vaguely resembling nonchalance; and it’s not just ordinary nonchalance, it’s bemusedly omniscient nonchalance. _Well_.

“Flowers,” she continues at length, brooding rather spectacularly, “are unfit to represent the form my love takes. Something so… _organic_ and… _ephemeral_ – cannot possibly hope to accurately convey the undying, transcendental nature of my love for him.”

He smiles at that, _(the cheek of him)_ and eyes her saucily, pupils dancing with mischief. She half lids her eyes, and waits for it.

"The daisy never dies, though," he scoffs, "it's a hardy _weed,_ you see," he adds, and spins the office chair he’s perched in around, kicking off the floor so he can keep going in circles that let him revolve ever closer to where she stands, so they can lock eyes in comical, deadly impasse: but it is a universal rule that all narrowed glances and disdainful lip curling between two persons must eventually shift into laughter of the most incongruous sort.

When they finally snap; the office feels almost too small to contain the sudden eruption of noise in that moment.

 

**xxx**

 

They both end up as near-lifeless heaps on the plush carpeted floor, occasional relapses into mirth making them quake uncontrollably – the sort a disinterested observer would be likely to label as acute seizures. Or something like that.

He’s stretched out on his back, fur-trimmed coat and all; hands over his eyes as he rolls from side to side in bizarre pantomime of an emergency drill – _now if only he were really on fire_ , she thinks, brief lucidity of thought piercing through her still-hazy awareness.

She hasn’t laughed like this before, has she?

She knows he laughs like this almost every day.

He whips around to face her then, coiling his lanky frame around, and from where she lies curled on her side, and she blinks. Slowly, once, and simply for the sake of briefly breaking the eye contact he’s forced on her, for the record.

“I’ve decided,” he says, feral grin stretching his face wide. “I’m going to get you some daisies.”

Daisies – childhood, innocence, purity.

It’s a bit of a stretch, but she supposes he could be considered so, in a certain way, when it comes to certain things, if one squints very hard. From what she’s heard, he’s been this same twisted self since his younger days, and seeing as she doesn’t think she can label it _maturity_ in a middle schooler, it’s better to say that it is _childlike_ behaviour in an adult (an adult who claims to be forever twenty-one, yes, but let’s not split hairs). 

“Hey,” she yells from the kitchenette, where she’s dispensing hot water into a porcelain cup. “Is there anything innocent about you in the least?”

“I don’t think so,” he calls back, smiling lopsidedly as she places his customary cup of tea in front of him. _Ah_.

 

>  
> 
> _Chamomile._
> 
>  

 

It seems she’s beaten him to it.

 

**xxx**

 

He'd said he wanted to get her daisies - they'd have been the perfect mocking representation of her twisted love and its enduring nature. White and small for the innocence of childhood, the period of her life in which her obsession with that boy started, and that boy's obsession with _the head_  started.

 _She really should learn to appreciate the beauty of metaphors_ , is what he wants to say, but can't say. Because what she's done has more than proved that her grasp of allegorical symbolism is satisfactory. Who'd have thought she would one-up him first, by presenting him with daisies in his tea? He's definitely learning not to underestimate his new secretary too much.

Her message is clear; the gesture functions as a comment on how he himself is nursing an enduring, twisted love, his notorious love for humans, so who the hell is he to talk? Still, there's something more subtle underlying it, one that makes him curve a secret little smile into the rim of his teacup. It's reassuring, he supposes, to know that she thinks that there's something pure in everyone, even a generally denounced scumbag like him. But of course.

It's probably more from a desire to consecrate her own idea of love, but still, he'll take this as a compliment. Those are hard to come by these days.

They're both pure in their sick devotions to different things, aren't they?

He takes another pull of his tea, watching the petals swirl haphazardly at the bottom.

_It's perfect._

 

**xxx**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ///ahh the light novel translations give me so much life///
> 
> To note:  
> Chamomile is a type of aster, which falls under the same general umbrella as typical 'daisies', of which there are many varieties. Depending on where you are, daisies may be considered weeds or flowers. I think we all already know, but they also symbolize innocence and purity.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Izaya, Namie (!!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> err idk

**xxx**

 

He’s sheathed deep inside of her core, and the lean, scarred muscle of his chest is pressed flush against her back, but he isn’t moving.

She clicks her tongue in irritation and he grins wickedly against the hollow of her neck: she can feel the light scrape of his incisors there, something for her to focus on apart from the arm that sinuously curls around her waist.

“You know,” he whispers breathily into the shell of her ear, “I think the process of making love is best enhanced when there’s a little _hate_ involved, don’t you? Makes everything just that bit more thrilling, somehow.”

“Must be tough for you to get off, then,” she quips dryly, rolling her hips a little (and her eyes, too). “Seeing as how you _love_ all humans.”

“Ah, but then of course you have your Shizu-chan,” she continues, steadfastly ignoring him as he cruelly twists her right nipple. “Sex with him would be utterly enthralling, would it not? You do hate him so much, after all.”

He growls at her, at this display of insubordination. “Shut up,” he bites out, as he finally starts moving, sending expertly angled thrusts into the snug heat of her walls; “and don’t you dare tell me this isn’t good.”

Namie wraps her fingers around the smooth wood grain of the desk she’s currently bent over. “No worries, Izaya,” she gasps out, words interspersed with other appreciative noises as he fingers her clitoris. “I won’t hold it against you if it’s mediocre.”

They go at it twice more in total.

 

**xxx**


	3. Izaya, Namie (!!!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A twist on the Izaya-crawls-back-and-Namie-treats-him scenario, I guess. I was reading the light novels and that line from Shinra about the neglect play got to me (LOL)

**xxx**

 

When Izaya wakes, all he sees is the ceiling. That’s normal.

What’s not normal is way his limbs are arranged – no one naturally sleeps like this, he’s certain – and the too-solid feel of the material under his back; no, his _bare_ back. It dawns on him that he’s lying spread-eagled on a low wooden surface, which puts him at about knee-level of an average human standing up; he’s also completely naked but for his boxers, one limb secured to each leg of the furniture.

 

>  
> 
> _Dear god, where is he? Is he seriously tied to the fucking coffee table? How the fuck did he end up on the fucking coffee table?_
> 
>  

 

“You’re on the coffee table,” Namie’s cool voice drifts down to confirm his suspicions; the familiar bored intonation of her words calming him a little. “Don’t worry,” she's saying, “I didn’t mess that stupid board of yours up, I shifted it carefully. It’s sitting nicely on your desk, ‘kay?”

_Okay_ , he thinks, _but that doesn’t help explain why I’m almost naked and tied to the coffee table now, does it_? He tries to lift his head and locate his secretary’s hideous green jumper, but everything’s a blur and spinning nastily, his head’s kind of too heavy to move as well. _Fuck_.

“I’ve washed and disinfected most of those cuts,” she says, crouching down so she’s within his very limited range of vision, just behind his head. He tilts it back and tries to focus his sight on her lips as they move. “You’ve also been force-fed some anaesthetic and stitched up, and I’ve pushed that dislocated shoulder of yours back into place. Hopefully it isn’t inflamed,” she wraps up, prodding experimentally at said shoulder. He winces, and she presses the point of her finger down; pain drilling into his consciousness. _Oh damn it that hurts that hurts that hurts_ –

They’re both stubborn, but much as he hates to admit it, it’s pretty obvious that she has the upper hand here. He grits his teeth, stark contrast to the idle pursing of her lips – she only lets up when he opens his mouth to whimper, when he tries to writhe ineffectually.

“That aside, this is all for your own good, you know. There was nothing for it but to tie you to the table; because you were thrashing about so hard we couldn’t even get close enough to tell what was wrong with you initially,” she drawls, fixing her eyes on his. “You’ll heal faster with limited movement, anyway.”

 

>  
> 
> _It’s chilling how she makes that sound normal, makes it sound like there’s nothing wrong with spreading your employer out on a coffee table like sashimi on a chopping board and leaving him there for god knows how long while he remained unconscious. What next? Should he be glad that they (he’s guessing she called Shinra over when he was being a difficult patient) made sure to truss him up indoors, where there are no birds flying overhead to shit on him or peck at his liver? Gee, sometimes he really feels like he doesn’t know what the world is coming to._
> 
>  

 

Is what he wants to say, but his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. She can obviously tell he’s too dehydrated to speak, because she produces a glass of water out of nowhere in a manner that suggests she’s been waiting for an opportunity to shove the contents down his throat. Instead of dumping it over his face, though, she actually reaches out to lever his head up and cradle the back of it with her hand. It’s a massive relief when the glass is tilted to his lips and he actually takes a few mouthfuls of soothing liquid without having any little accidents.

He forgets not to raise his brows at her, though. Her hand slips. “Oops,” she says flatly, and he chuckles weakly, voice raw from period of disuse.

“That was mean of you, Namie,” he croaks, managing to plaster on a weak shadow of his usual cocksure grin, “to become another one of my precious humans who would wound me. Not just with your words, but for my shoulder too – _ah_ , you really should take responsibility and kiss it better.”

“If it’s a kiss, you can have one from your weirdo doctor friend,” she retorts, toggling a phone screen over his face so he can view a recording of Shinra’s stupid mug as he puckers up. _Was he going to send that abomination to Celty? Gross._

He pouts as she wipes his face down neatly, and then moves to dabbing gunk on all his minor injuries. “Come on,” he whines, “just one kiss?”

She pauses whatever she was doing and leans over him suddenly, too close, _too close_ , his mind screams. He did ask for this, though. “Well,” she muses, “since you have been relatively cooperative for some time _(when I was out cold, you mean? He thinks)_ , I suppose one would be alright, huh.”

She bends lower, and he shutters his eyes.

When he opens them again he notes that the ceiling of the apartment has been bathed in warm golden light for the past small eternity now, white overlaid with darkening swathes of yellow and burnt orange that tell him the sun is setting. She’s getting ready to leave now, isn’t she?

“You’re horrible for neglecting me like this, you know,” he calls out, even though he won’t exactly be in danger of freezing to death, since the heaters have been adjusted and the curtains drawn and the lights comfortably dimmed in one corner.

“Well then,” she replies coolly, as she slips her feet into her outdoor shoes, “you can just think of this as neglect play.”

She shuts he door behind her, and he listens for the vanishing echo of her footsteps down the corridor, the ping of the arriving elevator. The spot on his nose where she kissed him itches a little. But seriously, _neglect play_?

 

>  
> 
> _Damn that Shinra_.
> 
>  

 

**xxx**


	4. Kuronuma Aoba, Orihara Kururi, Orihara Mairu (!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rooftop shenanigans during lunch hour 
> 
> (aka dumb smut with a fluffy-ish ending) (don't shoot me)

**xxx**

 

When Kuronuma Aoba gets called to the rooftop during lunch he can only expect to be embroiled in some sort of deep shit. And that is exactly what happens, though it’s the not the sort of deep shit he was expecting. _Was_ expecting.

Because as soon as he makes it up the dingy stairwell and closes the door behind him, he’s slammed into the flimsy wooden surface by one Orihara Mairu, who flies at him out of nowhere, braids whipping about in the wind. Her glasses are skewed on her nose from the impact delivered and her crazy eyes are fucking two inches away from his own startled pupils and _she’s just smiling at him like he’s lunch._

He may as well be, actually. The bruising grip on his shoulders tightens along with the tension in the air, a thin, razor-sharp string of the sort he doesn’t even dare to breathe around. “Arms straight out sideways, Aoba-san,” she sings, slamming his hands into place when he remains too stunned to move for a second too long. “This way, so it looks like you’re going to be crucified.”

 _Dear god_ , he thinks, _what did I ever do to deserve this?_ Is this oddly divine punishment for everything he’s plotted against Ran and Mikado-senpai and everybody else who’s been stupid enough to trust him even though they knew better? It doesn’t seem so, though. This attack is way more personal, somehow. And since this is Orihara Mairu, this is also about Orihara Kururi.

Orihara Kururi, who sits next to him in class, always in a gym uniform and always quiet. Orihara Kururi, who he stood up for in class previously when she was being bullied on her sister’s account, and who he happened to catch yesterday dodging falling flowerpots round the back of the school building. _Ah_.

Mairu lets go of him all of a sudden, spinning away merrily so her skirt fans out around her too-pale legs. He’s ready to sigh in relief and scram, but the girl has other plans. “Aha!” she cries, when she spots him slumping his shoulders and preparing to put his arms back down – the next thing he knows, a neat line of thumbtacks has the lining of his uniform sleeves neatly pinned to the door and wall, driven straight into the fucking _concrete_. He is literally barring the entrance to the roof right now. “Naughty of you, Aoba-san,” Mairu leers, suddenly up close again. He turns his face to the side, stares at the parts of his wrist that he just knows are purpling under his uniform, skeins of ruptured blood vessels.

The bespectacled girl pushes off him again and does a neat series of backflips before springing up onto the ledge above his head. He can’t very well see what’s going on, but he can hear rustling and whispering. He swallows, hard.

“Mairu-san? Kururi-san?” he dares to venture, heart now pounding so hard in his chest that he wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped right through the fabric. “What is – what is this about?”

“Thank (Thank you for yesterday, like last time).”

“What the hell do you think, silly, of course it’s Kuru-nee wanting to be nice to you, though I don’t know why she bothers! Ah, Kuru-nee, you love me more than him, right? I’m the one you love most in the world, right?”

“Stop (Don’t pinch me).”

Aoba sighs wearily, and they get the message. “Coming,” is Kururi’s barely audible whisper, as she climbs carefully down the steel-rung ladder. Mairu leaps off, neatly landing in front of him on one knee, arms full of assorted magazines full of X-rated material. His eyes do kind of bug out, he must admit. Porn. Porn; porn being carried around in broad daylight, porn. Even though they are on the roof, so technically no one’s here to look but him. _What the hell?_

The twins kneel in front of his mock-crucified form and spread the selection at his feet (very nicely, he notes, like a deck of playing cards one does tricks with), and bring silently (or in Mairu’s case, not so silently) eager eyes up to meet his. “Choose one,” they say in unison; _that’s rare, he thinks_.

 He has no idea where this is going, but luckily there’s someone else around to make some sense of the situation. “Kuronuma Aoba-san,” a male voice says, in a tone as crafty and downright manipulative as his own, “a pleasure to meet you at last. Orihara Izaya, at your service.”

The man drops down from above (wherever the hell he’d been concealing himself) and dances his way over to stand behind the twins, jaunty smile firmly in place, trademark fur coat flaring a little behind him. He dips a bow, claps his hands lightly. “Like they said,” he smiles, slowly and dangerously, “pick one.”

“You pick one magazine, and they’ll base whatever they do to you next on its contents. Simple enough, yes?”

Aoba eyes them all warily, enough for them to open their mouths and reply to his suspicions, unstated or not.

“Ah, really, this is a reward for helping Kuru-nee out yesterday. You should be grateful, hurry and pick one already! Eh, I wonder if any of these have flowerpots inside them? We could theme it –“

“Even if there were, stupid, where would we get those? There aren’t any on the roof –“

“Maybe (That might work, but I don’t think there will be flowerpots in your magazines).”

“You could go steal one, Iza-nii, you’re good at jumping around.”

“Flowerpots are more suited for torture than…this, anyway.”

“But we’re borrowing this idea from Erika-san and Yumasaki-san, ne? Don’t they use it for torture?”

“Different (They use manga. This is porn.) – ow!”

The three siblings bicker, and Aoba blinks; they’re all talking to and over one another, rendering the conversation near unintelligible, it’s washing over him like water. Damn right, he could be drowning too and he wouldn’t know it, wouldn’t know it from all the clenching in his chest and the numbness in his face. The pain in his abused wrists anchors him to reality. Izaya smirks at him.

“…Perhaps torture would be a better idea, though. I don’t much like the idea of rewarding someone who likes to pick on our Mikado, hmm?” _Wait, what? How does he even know that?_

“Anyway, lunch break won’t last forever, shouldn’t you two be getting a move on?”

“Hai,” Mairu replies, and Kururi smiles enigmatically: and then there’s Aoba pinned to the spot, gaping at the now-unzipped fly of his pants.

 

**xxx**

 

How long does lunch break last, you ask? Let’s say one hour.

One hour is more than enough time for Aoba to crack – according to his abductors, he took ten minutes – and randomly lash a foot out; it catches on one of the porn magazines, sends it flying, and they leap eagerly upon it with all the gusto of delayed enthusiasm.

Within the next five minutes, their motley crew has established some sort of setup to follow. Aoba tells himself that he’ll never be able to live this down, especially not with the way his erection is staying up, despite all his attempts to the contrary. He can’t believe he’s actually glad for the blindfold over his eyes (the one Izaya casually produced out of his coat pocket). Still, his cheeks are impossibly red, he’s sure, because not being able to see heightens your awareness of every sensation and he definitely would be flaming up even without having his sight obscured.

Mairu has managed to coerce Kururi into acting out scenes from the magazine he picked, while Izaya has been employing himself in running experimental hands through Aoba’s hair, over his cheeks, under his chin.

The boy holds his breath (no easy feat, when just a millisecond ago he was gasping with pain and pleasure) when he feels the tip of a knife – switchblade, to be exact – on his skin. It traces the path from the base of his throat to the underside of his chin, teasingly nicking at his Adam’s apple. He can hear the ridiculously erotic sounds of the twins making out, all hard smacking of lips and drawn-out moans, whimpers and the scuffle of sneakers on the concrete when one of them writhes. He’s so turned on it hurts – his cock painfully straining; then in the next second it’s been freed from all constricting fabric and plunged into moist wet warmth. Then Izaya slashes the blindfold from Aoba’s eyes and dances over to the railings in one graceful extended movement –

“Bye, you dirty little brats,” he calls, as he swings his lithe form into the prep room below before casually walking out of the school building. “I sure as hell don’t want to stick around and see that,” he chortles dryly. “Ah, if Namie hasn’t gone out for lunch yet, I’ll treat her, hmm.”

 _That fucker_ , Aoba curses. He’s a little lost for words, though, because right then Orihara Kururi is on her knees and sucking him off, her twin sister lying under her and eating her out. They’re all a hot mess, so long past the point of shame that every gasp and strangled moan is allowed to escape with impunity (though they’re still glad none of them is a screamer). By this point everyone’s close, Aoba’s arching his back as far as he can while thrusting desperately into that soft mouth, and Kururi in turn is grinding down onto Mairu’s face, one hand down to finger her own clit even as the other fondles his balls, nudges the base of his shaft.

They don’t know who comes first.

All Aoba knows is that he wakes up in the infirmary, nary a trace of the encounter on him except for the ugly purple bruising that circles his wrists, under the cover of his uniform – that and the musky smell of sex in the air, so faint that he could think he was imagining it.

 

**xxx**

 

The next time he’s called out to the rooftop, though, it’s a perfectly normal brawl over gang ties and territory and other petty little things like revenge. In the middle of hurling fists and insults at one another he really doesn’t have the time to think back to unexpected sexual encounters – that is, until he lands a clever hit with his length of metal pipe and slams his opponent against the entryway to the roof – and he finds his eyes are fucking level with a neat line of holes on the plaster-covered concrete.

Aoba actually laughs.

“This way,” he sneers, lips curling up into smile as he crushes the other boy against the walls; “so it looks like you’re going to be crucified.”

 

**xxx**

 

He finishes them off quickly enough to go down to the cafeteria and get lunch, though pretty much everything has sold out by this point. When he slides the classroom door open and shuffles over to slump down in his seat, he finds a homemade sandwich under his desk.

He reaches over to scrawl in pencil on the corner of the desk next to his.

_Thanks._

 

**xxx**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: seiji ponders the ethics of sleeping with mika while viewing her as celty's head
> 
> (or: izumii ran ruminating in prison, I haven't quite decided yet)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading as always :>


End file.
